Host
by Estepheia
Summary: Giles gets a surprise visit from his old friend Ethan. Set after Chosen. Slash.


**Host**

Spoilers: none; set post-NFA  
Pairing: Giles/Ethan  
Rating: R  
Genre: angst, ficlet, h/c (in a fashion)  
Summary: Home is where they have to take you in.

**Part 1 - Opening**

Power surged. Metal chinked.

Giles snapped awake. Heart racing, all senses on alert, he sat upright in his bed, squinting into the silver-tinted dark. Even before he was fully awake, part of him was planning his next move: a quick dash for a suitable weapon, once the foe was identified. Where the full moon poured her cool light into the sparsely furnished bedroom, outlined against the window, stood a man. Again metal chinked against metal, a harsh sound that raised Giles's hackles.

"Bugger," the silhouette said, swaying, and then the man crumpled and hit the floor with a dull crack.

Giles scrambled for his spectacles and the light switch.

The yellow light of the bedside lamp revealed a man lying motionless on the floor – not sprawled, but curled tight into a sharp curve. With a dark shock of hair on one end, and brown boots on the other, the man looked absurdly like a bright orange caterpillar, albeit a thin one.

Half expecting a punch in the face or some other trick, Giles knelt beside the body. He took in the orange overall, the sturdy leather belt round the man's waist and the chains that led from that loops at the belt to metal cuffs round both ankles and wrists. It was impossible to see the man's face, but Giles would have recognized those strong, finely sculpted hands anywhere.

"Ethan?"

Silence. Hesitantly, Giles gave Ethan's shoulder a slight push. The prone body offered no resistance, only uncurled to reveal a gaunt face that looked worn even in its current state of slackness. A thick smear of dark red blood curved away from the nose. The skin on Ethan's forehead was split, but there was no blood, not even a swelling or discoloration. That's when Giles realized that Ethan wasn't breathing.

He was unprepared for the intense, gut-churning emotion that made his knees buckle. He wasn't even sure what he was feeling, only that it was too huge and too close-up to categorize. Before he knew it, Giles had torn open the ugly overall to put his ear on the motionless chest. No heartbeat. Not even a flicker. Giles froze. For a precarious moment he teetered on the brink of indifference, but then everything fell away: duty, danger, his Council oath and the fate of the world. Only two things remained tangible and real, Giles, and the dead man on his bedroom floor.

For all his years as a Watcher, he'd never actually given CPR, but of course he knew the drill. Giles tilted Ethan's head backwards and pinched the sharp nose. His lips hadn't touched Ethan's in over twenty years; his body, yes, his prick even, but never his lips. The few times that Giles saw a kiss building behind Ethan's eyes, he had always found a way to deflect it somehow, with a harsh word or touch. But now he pressed his lips on Ethan's and started to breathe air into deflated lungs. It probably wasn't a wise thing to do, but whoever said Giles always did the wise thing?

He breathed. Two breaths. Then fifteen pumps, to compress Ethan's chest and compel him to breathe. Two breaths. Fifteen pumps. Textbook CPR, executed with a precision that belied the growing tightness in Giles's own chest. Two breaths, fifteen pumps, fuelled by memories of a wicked mouth with a wicked smile. Two breaths, fifteen pumps, and Giles's heart felt painfully tight like a clenched fist that had forgotten how to uncurl. Two breaths. This was so like Ethan: stubborn, obstinate, willful. Fifteen pumps. "Breathe, God damnit, Ethan, breathe! Don't. You. Dare. Die. On. My. Floor, you blasted fool!"

Suddenly the prone body convulsed, drawing in a shuddering breath, followed by a dry, spasmic cough. Blood welled up from the cut on Ethan's forehead and seeped out of his nose, both signs that Ethan's ticker was doing its job again. Never in his life had Giles been so glad to see Ethan bleed.

When the cough subsided, dark eyes slowly focused on Giles's face. For a second Ethan's eyes shone with relief. That's when everything came rushing back, duty, destiny and the gulf between him and Ethan. The world that had seemed so small and simple just moments ago expanded, resuming its former complexity.

Ethan's gaze became wary, and resentful. Giles recognized those feelings only too well, but he couldn't tell, if Ethan mirrored his, or if he mirrored Ethan's.

"Ripper," Ethan stated. His voice was hoarse, rusty.

"Ethan."

"Where—?" Ethan slowly turned his head to study his surroundings, then frowned at the window. "England?"

"Surrey,"

"Of all places." Ethan sniffled, lifted his head and jerked his hand upwards, but the chains stopped him halfway. He froze for a second, then he went limp, his energy spent. "Don't know why the spell brought me here. Don't worry. I'll be out of your hair in no time. Just get me out of those chains, will you?"

Giles made no move.

"Or are you going to put me on a plane to Nevada?" Ethan asked with a ghost of a smile. "Do I at least get peanuts and an in-flight movie?"

His flippancy was a smokescreen. Giles had never seen Ethan so scared. Surprisingly, he felt no joy at the sight.

"I was going to offer you tea," Giles said, hiding the fact that he had no idea whatsoever what to do with his unexpected guest.

"Wouldn't say no to a Scotch," Ethan said, customarily taking the offered inch and a yard on top.

Ten minutes later, Giles had maneuvered his manacled guest down the narrow stairs and seated him on the sofa in the living room. The gas fire shed warmth and in the kitchen the kettle was humming on the stove. Picking the locks on the cuffs took several minutes. Giles expected a jibe or some kind of gleeful comment, after all it had been Ethan who'd taught him to pick locks and hot-wire cars, but Ethan just leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. When Giles was done, Ethan rubbed his scarred wrists, but said nothing.

Giles stood up, weighing the chains and cuffs in his hand. Heavy, but evidently insufficient to fully immobilize a determined spell-caster. Restrain? Yes. Disable? No. It was rather ironic, he mused absentmindedly, Ethan had always gone off like a rocket when Giles cuffed him to the bed. That's when the memories practically leapt out of ambush. For one brief, fractured moment, Giles was_there_: steel cuffs clanked against brass bedposts, bedsprings creaked rhythmically, and Ethan writhed underneath him, groaning and whimpering, and arching into Every. Single. Thrust. Giles's heart broke into a fierce, wide-eyed gallop, reins dangling. A painful jolt of heat rushed through his whole body like lightening, so intense it should have left behind charred flesh or at least the smell of ozone.

The feeling passed. Giles hurriedly caught the reins – practice made perfect – and looked up. Ethan had always been something of a mind reader, expert at guessing what went on in Giles's head, and ruthless at using that knowledge to his advantage. Giles was ready to repel his inevitable knowing smile with well-aimed sarcasm; ready to re-draw the line between Then and Now from the moral high ground that was undeniably his.

Giles needn't have worried. Ethan's gaze was fixed on the chains and cuffs, an expression of utter loathing etched on his face. So much for nostalgia.

Something inside Giles's stomach twisted. "I'll go get your Scotch." He brusquely turned away, draped the restraints over the backrest of a chair, then headed for the liquor cabinet. Scotch, single malt, straight, no ice for Ethan, nothing for himself. He couldn't allow alcohol to cloud his judgment and blur the line between right and wrong.

Ethan knocked back his drink without a word of thanks. He looked paler than Giles had ever seen him, grayer even. It could have been the hair. The luscious black was gone, leaving behind not the distinguished contrast of silver on black the ladies liked so much, but a washed-out gray. He looked old.

Ethan had always had steady hands, but now, when he lifted his glass for a refill, his hand shook. He hastily rested the glass on his knee, trying to salvage the tattered remains of his dignity. Giles wordlessly picked up the glass, poured, and handed it back.

In the kitchen, the hum of the kettle increased in volume and pitch. Giles was glad to have a reason to leave the room. It gave him a few minutes to gather his wits, while his hands were busy stacking cups and saucers on the tray, along with sugar and milk – in case Ethan wanted tea as well as scotch.

What on earth was he to do with the man? He couldn't just beat the crap out of him and set him loose. Or screw him senseless and then set him loose. Ethan was like a bloody boomerang, he always came back for seconds, and when he did, innocents got hurt. What then? Take him into Council custody? Many former watchers had come out of retirement, hanging up their golf clubs and fishing rods to step back into their former positions within the Council hierarchy. The upper echelons of the Council had never been more old school. Giles didn't trust the old cronies to deal with Ethan in a civilized fashion. Short-handed, they didn't have the means to keep him prisoner. They'd probably decide that the world was a safer place with Ethan six feet under – which was entirely true, but Giles wanted no part in putting him there. Giles contemplated the phone number he kept in his diary, the one Riley had given Buffy should she ever need to get in touch with him. Maybe he should simply return Ethan to the Initiative?

Giles picked up the tray and cautiously headed back to the living room. He didn't really expect Ethan to lurk behind the door to knock him over the head, but he still checked, before entering.

Ethan sat where Giles had left him, cradling his glass with both hands and staring morosely into the amber depths of his single malt. As he put down his tray, Giles realized that part of him had hoped Ethan would take the opportunity to scamper, to teleport to greener pastures. Which was ridiculous. The man had just leapt off Death's shovel – well, actually, not so much 'leapt' as 'been dragged off'. He'd be teleporting nowhere, not for several days. Maybe never again.

Whenever Giles had teleported he'd been aided by a Council mage or the Coven, and there had been chalk circles and other magical ingredients, to keep the crippling power drain manageable. Teleporting from one end of the globe to the other, without help or props, was sheer unadulterated lunacy. No wonder Ethan's body had shut down. The fact that Ethan sat here, alive, drinking Giles's scotch, was a statistical improbability. The word 'miracle' lurked in the back of Giles's head but he resolutely pushed it away. Miracles were reserved for the good guys, as far as Giles was concerned.

"You took quite a risk, teleporting here," he said, in spite of himself.

"I'd have gnawed off my right arm to get out of there," Ethan said without humor. He squinted at his drink, then downed it with grim determination.

Giles fought down another bout of queasiness in his stomach. "I must confess I'm rather surprised it took you so long," he said conversationally.

It was true. It was also the understatement of the year. With the hereditary disdain of the British for American covert operations, Giles had pegged the Initiative as a bunch of bungling GI Joe wannabes with delusions of grandeur, a big budget, and only a hazy understanding of the occult; unable to tell their arses from their elbows when it came to sorcerery and restraining its practitioners. He'd given them two days tops. Ethan was too smart and too slippery. So how come those projected two days of imprisonment had turned into five years?

"Didn't know I had an appointment to keep, otherwise I'd have popped by sooner. Awww Rupert, can you forgive me for standing you up?" Ethan batted his eyelashes, but he wasn't smiling. "Tell me, Ripper, now that you have me, what are you going to do with your old mate Ethan?"

**Part 2 – Middlegame**

Beat him to a pulp? No, of course not, even though his fingers curled into fists with the urge to pound and bash. How was it that Ethan never failed to bring out the adolescent thug in him – even without drugs or spells? A minute ago Giles had felt a pang of pity for his erstwhile friend, but now a familiar mixture of irritation and vicious anger jostled aside all nobler impulses.

Giles stared at the tray before him, took a deep breath, and smothered his anger. He couldn't quite calm his furious heart, but by retreating behind the homely bulwark of good manners, he could at least deny Ethan the satisfaction of knowing just how much he still got under his skin.

"Tea?" Giles did not wait for an answer but handed Ethan a cup of strong Earl Grey with milk and sugar, before picking up his own cup – maintaining a perfect façade of hospitality, ever the implacable, civilized librarian. "Rest assured," he said lightly, but with more than a hint of malice, "it won't kill you. Or turn you into a Fyarl demon."

Ethan had been inhaling the tea's fragrant aroma with an expression close to rapture. Obviously, the thought that the drink might be spiked hadn't even crossed his mind. But now he frowned, as he contemplated the possibility. "Would make things easier for you though, wouldn't it, Rupert? Me, dead…," he mused. "No evil Ethan to upset your tidy black-and-white world."

Giles stifled a sigh. There was nothing tidy or clear-cut about his world, not anymore. It was a world where a soulless vampire could grow enough of a conscience to experience remorse and want his soul back; where a bright, talented young girl who'd fought evil for years, suddenly found so much darkness and rage inside her, that she flayed a man alive; where a watcher took a human life, smothering a young man with his bare hands, because a god of chaos happened to be trapped inside the man's body. When exactly had the world turned into a palette of greys?

Giles took off his spectacles and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If I wanted you dead, you would be," he said. "You would be lying on my bedroom rug right now, with an old sheet covering your face."

Ethan digested this. "True, you had the perfect chance to finish me off. All it took was a pillow and a bit of pressure. Why didn't you?" The challenge in his eyes was blatant. "And please don't insult my intelligence by saying you wouldn't do such a thing. I _know_ you have it in you, Ripper."

"I didn't have to."

Ethan frowned at that, but Giles did not elaborate.

"So," Ethan finally broke the lengthening silence. "Speaking of death, and seeing that you're not in Sunnydale anymore, I take it your precious Slayer finally kicked the bucket?"

"Buffy's fine, retired, actually. Thank you for asking," Giles said coldly.

"Retired? How quaint." One could almost see the cogs and wheels spinning and turning in Ethan's head, as the chaos sorcerer tried to make sense out of the few tidbits of information Giles had surrendered. Five years was a long time to be out of the loop. "What about the Hellmouth? Who watches that? I take it, it didn't retire as well."

"As a matter of fact, it did. The Hellmouth collapsed and took the whole town with it."

That elicited a wan smile. "Must have been quite a show. Too bad I missed it."

Giles tensed. "Still thriving on chaos and destruction, I see. You are, as always, utterly indifferent towards the suffering of innocents. Obviously, you haven't changed a bit."

"Oh, but I have," Ethan said, still smiling, a disconcerting, almost feverish gleam in his eyes. "You wouldn't believe how much I've changed. I'm a new man. Amazing what a few years of incarceration can do for you. I'm all enlightened now, and ennobled. I've got redemption practically coming out of my arse. Give me a puppy to hug and I'll prove it."

"By nailing it to the church door, no doubt. I know you, Ethan. You're selfish, self-centered, and callous. No matter what you do or say, I'd sooner believe in a striped leopard, than in you suddenly changing your spots." A note of regret threatened to creep into his voice but Giles harshly stomped on the sentiment. The key to dealing with Ethan was to keep all emotion at arm's length: anger, regret, even pity. Especially pity.

"Ah yes, you always had me completely figured out, Rupert." Ethan put down his empty cup and leaned back on the sofa in what was clearly meant as an expression of unrepentant defiance. "But if I'm irredeemably evil, what am I doing on your sofa, drinking your tea? What about your solemn duty to do away with the likes of me? My, my, what a dilemma."

Giles frowned at the infuriating acuity with which Ethan had summed up the situation. "There's no dilemma," he said, trying to convince himself that he wasn't caught between a rock and a hard place. "Even if I wished, for old times' sake, to set you loose, you and I both know I can't."

Ethan nodded slowly. "Tell me, Rupert, will you kiss me, before you screw me?"

"Shut up."

Silence. Eventually Ethan got up for a refill. His movements were slow. The heavy tea-pot bobbed in his unsteady hands and the clanking of the spoon in the sugar bowl was almost unbearably loud, but he succeeded without major mishap.

Ethan shuffled to the nearest window, parted the curtains and peered into the darkness outside. "You do realize, old chap, I won't go back, right?" The way he sipped his tea, and the way he spoke, over his shoulder and without raising his voice, gave him an almost serene air. "Not if I can help it."

Giles did not have to point out that in his current frail state Ethan couldn't put up much of a fight. He wore no chains, but he was still Giles's prisoner. They both knew it.

Ethan turned away from the window and walked towards the fire. Its glow dyed his orange prison garb a sanguine hue. "Remember the last time we played?"

Played? That was one way of calling it. Giles had ended up with his trousers pooling round his ankles and his back pressed against the inside of his front door, while Ethan slithered down to fellate him with staggering skill. Afterwards they'd stumbled upstairs, laughing and groping, shedding their clothes on the way like autumn leaves. The sex had been bloody brilliant, as always, the kind that turned a man's brains into mush and his spine into a lightning rod. Sheer magic. Just like old times.

Giles geared up to make a cutting remark about the harsh light of day and the lack of afterglow, about waking up with Fyarl horns, paralyzing mucous, and an axe to grind, when he realized that Ethan was referring to the chessboard on the side table.

"Oh you mean chess?" he said, quickly covering up his fluster. "Well, of course. How could I forget? You cheated, yet I still beat you." Giles smiled at the memory of chess pieces hurled at him in sullen anger. "Every time," he added.

"That you did." Ethan picked up the white bishop and wistfully turned it in his hands, caressing the smooth ivory with his thumb. "Don't you ever get tired of walking the straight and narrow path?"

"No, never," Giles lied unblinkingly. "What about you? Were you never tempted to serve another purpose than your own self-gratification?"

He expected instant denial, but instead Ethan asked: "Do you think you could still beat me?"

Giles had played regularly before coming to Sunnydale, but not in recent years. Only occasional games of correspondence chess against strong opponents like Robson had prevented him from completely losing his edge. Nevertheless he trusted his ability to stay focused. Ethan on the other hand had always played an erratic game, full of overplays, and he was prone to abandon a good position for short-term gain.

"I could say that it depends on whether you've practiced, but we both know I'll always be the better player," Giles said with conviction. Theoretically, Ethan had the brains to be a good player, but his personality inevitably got in the way.

Ethan pondered this. He put the white bishop back on its square. "Let's find out," he said. "I win, I walk. Out of your house, out of your life. You'll never see me again. I give you my word on that."

"We both know how much that is worth," Giles said disparagingly. "But let's assume for a minute that I'm willing to go along with this ludicrous scheme of yours: what if I win?"

"You slap on the cuffs and I'll go wherever you send me, without making a fuss. How about it, Rupert?"

"No." There had to be a catch somewhere, Giles was certain of it. Ethan would never surrender like that – not unless he had a trump up his sleeve.

"What, backing down from a challenge? That's not the Ripper I know."

"You're the one who's always into playing games, not me. No matter what, tomorrow I'm taking you to London." Giles put down his cup and strode towards the door. "I'll go get some sheets. You're sleeping on the sofa."

One word, spoken in a small voice, rooted him to the spot: "Please?"

Giles did not turn. He did not want to look at Ethan's face and he certainly didn't want to hear anything Ethan had to say, but his feet had developed a will of their own, steadfastly refusing to whisk him away to safety.

"A chance, that's all I ask," Ethan said behind him, softly, pleadingly. And when Giles didn't answer: "For old times' sake."

Giles sighed, defeated. "Very well. But I'm white."

"Of course you are."

Back in their early twenties, Ethan's favorite strategy had been to distract Giles with lewd talk while pumping the neck of his beer bottle. This had often led to a bare foot running up the inside of Giles's leg. Inevitably, Giles would run out of patience and shove the board away to bend his laughing friend over the table.

Those were the days. Fun times, full of passion and fury. Wild. Rebellious. Gone. Thirty years in the past. Good gracious, had they really grown that old?

Half expecting his erstwhile friend to fall back into his old habits, Giles braced himself for a barrage of innuendo and a lot of ridiculous talk about 'the good old days.' He had no intention of allowing Ethan to play him again, not like last time.

"Come on, Rupert," Ethan had said that evening, five years ago. "We're both grown-ups who know what we're doing. Just two consenting adults having a good time – without weeks of foreplay. No need for candlelight or cotton candy. No strings. Just you, me, and a pair of hand-cuffs."

The inherent truth in his words had worked in Ethan's favour, along with Ethan's hand on Giles's thigh – not to mention too many beers and shots, but the real doors through which Ethan had snuck in had been nostalgia and the intense loneliness Giles had felt at the time. Those doors were closed now, guarded by the memory of waking up as a Fyarl demon; Ethan would have a hard time getting past Giles's defences.

Giles needn't have worried. Even Ethan seemed to feel the weight of the past and their age, sparing them both the embarrassment. He played slowly and mostly in silence, thoroughly contemplating every move. This new-found discipline made him a much more formidable player than Giles had expected. Even so it was obvious to Giles that Ethan had never actually studied chess on a theoretical level.

They played silently for several minutes without either of them gaining a significant advantage. Black looked walled in, overly defensive. Ethan's pieces barely had room to maneuver. White's rook dominated the center of the board, but had little support from the other white pieces on the board.

Giles brought his queen into play, a deliberate provocation. Ethan countered by advancing one of his pawns, forcing Giles to pull back. Giles hid a smile. His action had punched a tiny hole into Black's defences, one that should provide more and more leverage for White, as the game progressed.

Ethan finally broke the silence, never taking his eyes off the board. "And you being back in England is what? Early retirement?" After a moment of hesitation he withdrew his knight.

"No. I'm on sabbatical."

"Good for you. What are you researching?"

"The Guardians." Giles frowned at the board, not entirely satisfied. His position was better than Ethan's, but too cramped. The development of his pawns was hampered by his own pieces. He spent his next moves building a stronger platform for his attacks. On the other side of the board, Ethan tried the same.

"So the Guardians really exist?" Ethan rekindled the conversation.

"Past tense. The last Guardian was killed two years ago by an avatar of The First."

"Good for you. That's what I call a tidy ending. Perfect closure."

For a second Giles thought he detected a veiled threat in Ethan's chipper words, an insinuation that perhaps death was the perfect ending for their relationship. But whose death? Ethan looked too tired and worn out to be plotting a gruesome revenge, but that could just be a ruse.

The fact that Ethan was no longer an open book was an irritating discovery. However this match was one way of cracking him open, of finding out how his mind worked. Chess had a tendency to expose people's strengths and weaknesses. Ethan would have to be a very good player indeed to be able to play like someone he wasn't.

Giles decided to withdraw his rook, giving his knight more room to threaten the widening hole in Ethan's flank. The seeming retreat might even lure Ethan into sticking his neck out.

Predictably, Ethan responded by advancing his black bishop. Giles moved one of his pawns, simultaneously threatening Ethan's bishop and strengthening his own formation. "I never thought I'd get to say this, but your game has improved," he said.

"Must you always be so bloody condescending?" Ethan bristled. But then, to Giles's surprise, he shrugged and explained. "My cellmate. He and I played checkers and sometimes chess."

"A good player?"

"Frightful." Ethan shrugged. "Vampires. Poor impulse control. Always hurled the pieces at me when he lost." He looked up, smiling inscrutably. "And before you say anything: Yes, I'm aware of the irony, thank you very much."

Giles had a sense of glimpsing only a small fraction of a larger whole. He knew very little about the Initiative and even less about their detention facility in Nevada. When the Sunnydale branch had closed down, the Initiative had dropped below Giles's radar. He'd been aware of their continued existence, but their activities had not touched on his or the Council's, and there had always been other, more crucial matters to research. Now he regretted his ignorance on the subject.

"Who were the other prisoners?" he asked neutrally, moving a pawn to give his king room to breathe.

"Vampires, werewolves, demons. All monsters, great and small."

"Other mages?"

"A handful." It was Ethan's move, but he leaned back with a bitter, twisted smile. "All in all, we were a merry little band of lab rats."

Giles felt a lump in his throat. So there _had_ been experiments – unless of course Ethan was playing him. He sought Ethan's gaze. "So merry you never wanted to leave?"

"Oh, you want to hear more? The inside scoop?" Ethan affected surprise. "About what? The gruesome experiments or my spectacular escape?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you want the annotated version, fully cross-referenced, with footnotes. Well, any information you want you'll have to buy off me."

"I have no intention of giving you money, Ethan."

"Who said anything about money? You know, Ripper, you've turned into a boring old fart."

"You do realize that remarks like that will scarcely endear you to me?"

"Oh please, Rupert, it wouldn't hurt for you to come off your high horse every once in a while."

"Just say what you want," Giles said impatiently, deriving no pleasure from the whole situation.

"World peace, a house in Marbella, my powers back. And a red Ferrari on top, if you please," Ethan rattled off. "Too much? Then scrap world peace."

"Your powers?" Giles blurted out.

"Gone," Ethan said. "They took them away. Now, don't forget to take notes. I'm sure there's a paper in there somewhere, once you're done researching the Guardians."

"Gone? I find that hard to believe. Maybe if you hadn't arrived in my house and my bedroom via teleportation spell—"

"I'm a dry well, Rupert," Ethan burst out, desperation shining through the cracks. "I can use it, but I can't store it. It trickles away faster than I can channel it."

Giles tried to imagine living without that well of power inside him. He'd put a lid on it, only tapping into the well under controlled circumstances and when all other avenues were closed. He didn't miss_using _it, at least not acutely, but the thought of suddenly being completely without it, of never feeling that subtle hum of power deep inside him, was harrowing. For Ethan it had to be worse. Magic was for Ethan what reading was for Giles – part of who he was. "What happened?"

"Surely you didn't think I'd be the first and only mage they ever got their hands on, did you? They knew exactly which wires to cut." Ethan lifted a few strands of hair to reveal a thin white scar. "But I beat them anyway, outsmarted them. Did the ruby slippers act right under their noses." He let his hand drop.

"What did you do?" Giles asked. His stomach took a sharp nose-dive. At the same time, he had to suppress a shiver as an icy chill trickled down his spine. His thoughts were racing, as he mentally rifled through a whole filing cabinet full of possibilities: Another dark pact? A deal struck with a force even darker and more twisted than Janus? What price had Ethan paid for his deliverance?

Ethan just smiled thinly and moved his remaining rook right next to Giles's queen, threatening the piece with capture. "Your move," he said.

This was it. Giles had anticipated Ethan's last move, planned for it even. All he had to do was nail the coffin shut, but now that the moment was here, he found himself hesitating. He stood up abruptly and strode into the kitchen to make fresh tea and butter a few slices of toast, in case his guest was hungry. The menial task made it easier to think. He had no need to look at the board. In fact, he could have played the rest of the match blind.

He had a perfect excuse to let Ethan go. Bound by his word of honor, all Giles had to do was lose, and this was the perfect moment to throw the match. Would Ethan keep his word and stay out of Giles's life? Perhaps. Would Giles rather see Ethan free than back in the clutches of the Initiative? Remembering the shock and loss he'd felt when Ethan lay dead on his carpet, Giles had to answer that question with a definite'yes.' But this wasn't about what Giles wanted, or didn't want. Decisions couldn't be made that way, not even for old times' sake.

When Giles returned to the living room, Ethan stood gazing out of the window again. Outside, the sky was no longer black but a dull slate-gray. Daybreak was close. Giles set down his tray, poured two cups and returned to the board. The pieces stood in the exact positions he'd left them in. After helping himself to a piece of toast, Ethan joined him at the table.

Eyes trained on his opponent, Giles made his move, ignoring the threat to his queen, and using his remaining rook to capture a mere pawn instead.

Ethan blinked. However, his bewilderment soon gave way to uncertainty. The black pawn had shielded the black king from the white bishop. Now the only piece that remained between the black king and the threatening white bishop was Ethan's queen. Ethan rubbed his temples.

Giles could literally watch his old friend think. Ethan calculated move after move, but his determination to find a way out was gradually eroded by desperation.

"Check," Ethan said, stubbornly carrying out his attack and capturing the white queen, even though it meant losing his last rook.

Giles read it as one last hopeless plea. He stifled a smile and moved his own rook to capture Ethan's, sealing Black's fate.

Black and White both had five pawns left. Ethan still had one bishop and his queen, Giles had a rook and two bishops, but with his next move Ethan had no choice but to exchange his queen for one of Giles's bishops, leaving Giles one rook in the lead.

Giles leaned back in his chair. A rook was a major piece. At this point in the game it gave him a winning advantage. Ethan could squirm all he liked. Unless Giles made a colossal mistake, White would inevitably win.

Ethan sat and stared at the board, the bitter taste of defeat slowly registering on his face. After several minutes, in which the only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the murmur of the gas fire, and the solitary trill of an early blackbird outside, Ethan swallowed, and stood up. He was pale, but obviously trying to keep it together.

Giles stood up as well. It was customary to shake hands after a match. Not that Ethan ever cared for such gestures.

"I don't suppose you'd jump at it, if I were to suggest a draw, would you?" Ethan asked, his voice raw, but then he forced a smile and stuck out his hand. "Just kidding. "Good game."

Giles took the proffered hand warily, prepared for a sudden, desperate attempt to overpower him, but nothing of the sort happened. For a moment they just stood there, awkwardly facing each other across the black and white squares or the chessboard, then Ethan held out both arms, serenely offering his wrists.

Fighting down an almost overwhelming sense of relief, glad that he wouldn't have to use force on Ethan, Giles went and fetched the chains, weighing them once more in his hands. The steel felt cool and unyielding, heavier than before. It seemed cruel to ask but he forced the words out anyway: "Before I put these on, there's something I'd like to know. How did you get out?"

"Do you really expect me to tell you? To give up my only hope of escape just to impress you?"

"To tell the truth, I thought you might, I thought you'd be dying to tell me how you outsmarted America's finest," Giles said, grinning lopsidedly.

"I put on my ruby slippers, snapped my heels together, and said 'There's no place like—'" Ethan broke off, an odd expression on his face, as though he'd just realized something profound.

Giles waited patiently for him to continue.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Ethan finally said. "I may as well tell you. I prayed and I meditated, and every time I managed to cough up even the tiniest smidgen of power, I stored it inside someone else. Other inmates." Ethan paused, and Giles sensed a gut-wrenching history of despair under the simple, matter-of-fact explanation. Ethan sighed. "It's ironic, really. I spend more than three sodding years gathering enough power to finally get out. And where do I end up?"

"You end up with the one person who'll take you in," Giles said, and dropped the chains and cuffs. "I suppose we won't be needing those anymore."

**Part 3 – Endgame**

"You can sleep here," Giles said shortly afterwards, walking into the master bedroom. "I'll take the sofa downstairs."

Ethan hovered outside the room. "I should take the sofa," he offered.

"When was the last time you slept in a proper bed?"

"Point taken." Ethan stepped inside and set down on the bed, absentmindedly brushing his palm over the pillow that still bore a slight impression of Giles's head.

"Tell me, Rupert, truthfully. When the Initiative carted me away, did you know what would happen? What they'd do to me?"

Giles had been rummaging inside the wardrobe looking for an extra blanket but now he paused. "Tell me, old friend, when you turned me into a Fyarl demon, what did you think would happen?"

"Touché," Ethan said.

Giles sighed. "For what it's worth, I honestly thought you'd give them the slip sooner. For years I wondered when you'd finally turn up on my doorstep."

"And then I made my brilliant entrance here, in your bedroom…"

"Only to drop dead on the spot."

Silence. Then, "I died?"

"Yes, you did." Giles said softly. "On that rug over there. I'd be much obliged if you didn't make it a habit."

"Bugger. Fancy crossing to the great yonder and then coming back without the memories to prove it," Ethan complained. He slowly took off his clothes, shedding not just the orange overall but also the prison issue t-shirt and boxer shorts. "Can we burn these?" he asked, indicating the lump of crumpled fabric.

"If you like." Giles agreed, trying not to stare at Ethan's emaciated body. He handed him a pair of silk pyjamas, a present from Olivia. Giles had never worn them because he did not like the color, but for Ethan the slate-gray seemed just right. Besides, Ethan had always liked the feel of silk on his skin.

Ethan made no move to put them on, though. He merely ran his hand over the soft fabric.

Giles watched him for a moment, a painful tightness in his throat. He felt his fingers twitch, but this time not with the urge to hit. There was no reason to hold back, so he let the impulse take over, reaching out to give Ethan's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

The resulting flinch was as unexpected as it was unwelcome, but then the tension left Ethan's body and he leaned slightly into the touch.

Giles cleared his throat. "Good night," he said softly, and walked towards the door.

"Rupert?"

Giles stopped at the door, his hand on the handle. "Yes, Ethan?"

"What happens now?"

Giles sighed and turned around. "I don't know. One door closes, another one opens, but one thing I _do_ know: It's never too late for a fresh start. Now go to sleep. You look like death warmed up."

After shutting the door behind him, Giles paused on the landing. Had he done the right thing? Had he read Ethan correctly? In thirty years Ethan had never allowed Giles to walk away without a fight, or at least a comment, and the fact that Ethan had somehow learned to lose gracefully – and to keep his word – was an excellent indicator of growth. However, growth was no guarantee that Ethan could be trusted. It was a dilemma, but one that Giles looked forward to solving. If a vampire could win back his soul, who was to say that a chaos mage couldn't use his considerable talent for mischief for the greater good?

As he made his way down the stairs a smile crept over Giles's face. Tomorrow he'd make Ethan an offer of gainful employment. Giles knew at least one organisation who could benefit from a little bit of chaos. The Watcher's Council would never know what hit them.

END


End file.
